


The Perfect Fit

by HardNoctLife



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dress Up, First Dates, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/HardNoctLife
Summary: This was originally written for Inktober Day 27, "Coat," but then I liked it so much that I decided to use it for the FFXV Mini Bang.Ignis needs a date for a ball at the Citadel, and Prompto is available. There's just one problem--he has absolutely nothing to wear.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 30
Kudos: 130
Collections: FFXV Minibang 2019





	The Perfect Fit

**Author's Note:**

> My partner for the 2019 FFXV Mini Bang was the very lovely and wonderful @AceFlorins (Twitter/Tumblr)

It started with a coat, of all things.

Well, _really_ , it started when Ignis oh-so-casually mentioned that he was in search of a plus-one for the Citadel’s gala. Something about lots of important people, and not wanting to go alone despite being a royal advisor, and oh, that the prince would be _otherwise engaged_ throughout the duration of it—wait, _engaged_? Prompto had looked up at that one only to get a head-shake-smile combo from Ignis that he knew all too well.

Noctis, who had been lounging in the apartment he had lived in on-and-off since high school, one leg thrown up and over the back of the couch, the other hooked under one of Prompto’s, hadn’t looked away from the video game on the TV screen before saying, “Take Prompto, he’s free.”

 _Thanks, buddy, but I’m pretty sure the single most attractive guy I know has absolutely no desire to take me to some fancy party. I don’t even own a suit,_ Prompto thought.

He had glanced over his shoulder nervously to where Ignis was in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled absolutely divine (like usual), fully expecting and preparing for a quick rejection.

But to his surprise, the advisor titled his head slightly, eyes thoughtful behind his glasses, and nodded once. “If it is agreeable, Prompto…I would be delighted to go with you.”

It took everything in him to keep from gasping audibly, although his mouth did drop open. Noctis, unfazed, had blasted Prompto’s character off the screen in the fighting game they were playing.

“Knockout!” came the videogame announcer’s voice.

With a groan, Prompto had slumped down on the couch, hoping the blush on his face would be credited to getting his ass kicked, and not from his total disbelief and embarrassment.

“So, that settles it, huh?” Noctis had drawled, side eyeing Prompto with a smile.

“Y-yeah, if you’re _really_ sure,” Prompto mumbled. “I mean, there’s plenty of better people you could probably go with…”

“Prompto said yes,” Noctis had called out to Ignis, and for the rest of the evening, Prompto hadn’t been able to shake the sensation that he was getting himself in _way_ over his head.

* * *

It was less than a week later when Prompto sent a text to Noctis. It was late, but he knew he’d respond. The prince liked to sleep late, but he was your classic night owl.

 **_Prompto_ ** _[11:54 PM] dude, I can’t go to the gala with Iggy._

 **_Noct_ ** _[11:55 PM] what?? why not?_

 **_Prompto_ ** _[11:56 PM] I don’t have anything to wear. What do I say?_

 **_Noct_ ** _[11:57 PM] don’t worry, I’ll handle it._

 **_Prompto_ ** _[11:59 PM] thanks… I feel bad, but I don’t want to embarrass him, you know?_

And that was that.

Prompto went to bed feeling guilty, but not thinking much of it. Ignis was… _Ignis_. He would find another date, no sweat. Probably someone more put-together, and poised, and smart, and everything the advisor deserved, someone completely different from Prompto. This was for the best, to be honest. And yet, Prompto couldn’t rid himself of the sinking disappointment in his chest, so strong that it caused him to spend over an hour tossing and turning before sleep dragged him into its depths.

* * *

Prompto wakes to the smell of coffee—which is strange, because he doesn’t own a coffee maker. Typically, he would just drink whatever was brewing in the Crownsguard cantina if he got to work early enough, and it tasted more like burnt water most days, so that wasn’t very often. With a groan and a yawn, he rolls out of bed, heading for his apartment’s pathetic excuse for a kitchen in search of the smell’s origin.

When he sees Ignis, dressed in form-fitting black slacks, a white pinstripe button down, and suspenders, pouring coffee from a carafe into two mugs, Prompto can only blink slowly in disbelief.

 _Am I dreaming? I’ve gotta be dreaming_. He reaches over to pinch his arm— _ow—_ and realizes he is very much awake, if not a little groggy.

“Ah, good morning,” Ignis greets, turning to him with a close-lipped smile. “I hope you don’t mind, I let myself in.”

Prompto thinks of asking how he got in when the door was _definitely_ locked, but Ignis is Noctis’s advisor and a skilled tactician. There’s probably no place in Insomnia he couldn’t go if he wanted to, so Prompto asks a more important question.

“What are you doing here, Iggy?”

In the same moment, he remembers his text conversation with Noctis from the night before and his stomach drops, shifting nervously just to realize he is dressed only in chocobo print boxers and nothing else. _Oh gods._ He runs a hand through his blond hair, grimacing when he realizes it is sticking up in more than one place. _Great._ Luckily, his grogginess makes him less embarrassed than he would be normally, but he has a feeling he’ll be properly mortified in approximately an hour from now.

“Noct mentioned you were in need of some assistance,” Ignis answers, handing one mug to Prompto.

_Assistance…? Just what did Noctis tell him?_

Prompto takes the caffeinated offering without argument, sipping at the steaming liquid like it is an elixir. To his surprise, it is pretty dang good, especially considering he doesn’t care much for coffee.

“Thanks, Iggy.”

“My pleasure. Now, shall we?” Ignis places one hand on Prompto’s bare shoulder, the other gripping his own mug, and steers the blond back towards his bedroom.

“Shall we what?” Prompto wonders, mind moving slower considering the earliness of the hour.

“Noctis told me you needed help with clothing for the gala,” he says simply.

 _So_ this _is what Noct meant when he said he’d ‘handle it?’_ Prompto makes a mental note to yell at the prince later.

Prompto balks at the door as he thinks of the state his room is in, but Ignis is insistent, hand pressing firmly into the small of Prompto’s back. They ultimately enter with a sigh from Prompto, and he goes to sit on the edge of his bed, sipping his coffee in resignation. Ignis, on the other hand, heads straight for the closet, graciously ignoring the pile of clothes on the floor and the room’s general clutter ( _thank the Six)_.

The blond can only watch in muted horror as Ignis rifles through his closet, an endeavor which takes him approximately two minutes considering Prompto wears maybe six outfits total. He pulls out a coat from the back of it, something Prompto had completely forgotten about. It is navy blue with three gold buttons, and he honestly can’t remember where he got it or when he wore it last—maybe for a job interview? A graduation party? Who knows?

Ignis hums as he holds it up, observing it with furrowed brows. “Try this on, won’t you?” And in typical Ignis fashion, he is already beckoning Prompto closer while simultaneously taking a step towards him. Setting the coffee aside on his nightstand, Prompto does as he is told, holding his arms out to allow the advisor to help him pull it on.

It fits, although it’s a little big around the torso and long in the sleeves, giving the impression that Prompto is playing dress up in his father’s clothes.

It’s a strange sight—Prompto in an oversized blazer and boxers as Ignis circles the twenty-year-old with a critical gaze, a hand resting on his chin in thought as he mutters unintelligibly to himself. Prompto holds his breath without really knowing why, watching Ignis scanning him like one might observe an item for sale. The blond squirms, arms still held in a ‘T,’ too afraid to move until he is told otherwise. Finally, after what seems like forever, Ignis steps back and places his hands on his hips.

“What do you have on your schedule today?” Ignis asks pointedly. Prompto lets his arms fall back down by his sides, shrugging noncommittally.

“Well, nothing, really. It’s my day off, so—”

“Excellent. Get dressed and we will have this resolved in no time at all. I’ll be in the car,” Ignis instructs, and without waiting for Prompto to speak, the advisor turns on his heel and walks out, the door shutting gently behind him even as Ignis himself gives off the energy of a whirlwind.

Standing in the middle of his messy bedroom, Prompto is left wide-eyed and wondering what exactly Ignis has in store for him.

* * *

Ignis is stepping out of the car before it has fully come to a stop, sliding lithely around the vehicle to open Prompto’s door. Giving a slight nod of thanks to the driver, he exits into the cool autumn air and squints up and through the sunlight to the sign of the shop overhead, which reads: _Thread & Needle_, and in small print beneath, _Custom Tailoring and Alterations_.

“Right this way,” Ignis says, an arm lightly curling around Prompto to urge him forward. Now fully awake, Prompto’s stomach flutters from the contact, and he hurriedly walks through a pair of sliding glass doors into the most expensive looking clothing store he has ever seen.

There are smartly dressed mannequins in things Prompto doesn’t know the proper name for—vests on top of other vests, and fancy bow ties, and little golden buttons on jacket sleeves, made from costly fabrics and materials that he can’t pronounce. _Probably from Tenebrae—they’re always from Tenebrae_. Ignis doesn’t stop when they go through the doors, and Prompto warily follows, head on a swivel as he takes in suits and trousers that probably cost more than his weekly salary. The shop even _smells_ expensive, a mix of leather and musk— _masculine_ in that manly-not-boyish way, and something Prompto can’t say he relates to.

 _Don’t touch anything_ , he thinks to himself.

“Prompto? This is Gerald,” Ignis is saying, and Prompto snaps his attention away from a tuxedo behind a glass case that has a price tag of over 5,000 crowns. Wearing only jeans and a t-shirt, he is feeling severely underdressed.

Gerald, as he is introduced as, is an elderly looking man with a perfectly manicured gray beard and kind blue eyes that are surveying Prompto with interest. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he is dressed well if not modestly, and he has a tape measure slung over one shoulder and a vest pocket bulging with a variety of tools.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Gerald rasps, holding a calloused hand out. Prompto takes it with a sheepish smile, shaking it.

“He is going to be fitting you for something suitable to wear,” Ignis explains lightly.

“Oh, but I—” Prompto turns to Ignis in protest, but the advisor holds a hand up, effectively silencing him.

“Do not worry about the cost. Consider it an early birthday present, and a thank you for agreeing to join me at the gala.” Ignis is still smiling, looking obviously pleased with himself, and Prompto bites back the rest of his objection, looking between the two men as he deliberates.

“…all right,” he agrees reluctantly.

Gerald claps his hands together, face wrinkling as he grins. “Very good, sir. Follow me.”

* * *

Prompto quickly discovers he severely underestimated the time it would take to find something suitable to wear—by Ignis and Gerald’s standards of course, not his.

He’s positioned on a small pedestal in his boxers ( _again_ ) except this time there are mirrors surrounding him from every angle and the shopkeeper bobs and weaves in and out of his personal space, tape measure running over every inch of exposed and unexposed skin with amazing proficiency. Prompto stands stock still, face as red as a Lucian tomato as he tries to listen to the old man ramble on about in-seams and alterations, clucking like a hen as he writes down numbers on a note pad—bust, waist, bottom hem, front hem, and so on and so forth. Prompto can’t keep up with all the terminology, so he just tries to move whenever Gerald prods him to, nodding as if he understands. Meanwhile, Ignis sits in a chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other and an open notebook in his lap, glancing up on occasion to chuckle at Prompto’s flustered expression.

“Uh, how long is this supposed to take?” Prompto finally pipes up as Gerald turns him around, the man’s measuring tape circling the blond’s waist. He resists the urge to suck in his belly, shifting awkwardly.

“Once the measurements are done, we can select the pieces you would like along with the accessories. I can have the finished product delivered to your home tomorrow morning,” Gerald answers as he takes a step back. “Do you have a color scheme in mind?” He directs the question towards Ignis, who lifts his head, shutting his notebook.

“I was thinking blues and greens, perhaps a slate gray as a neutral to go alongside the black.”

Gerald is already shuffling away, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I will pull a few items for you,” he announces. Slipping out of the room, he leaves the men alone together, and Prompto is suddenly painfully aware of being only in his boxers, and very much awake.

 _There’s that embarrassment I know and love,_ he sighs. Luckily, Ignis has glanced down at his phone, and subsequently misses Prompto’s pained grimace. Prompto fidgets, hands wringing, dancing in place as his mind races through the weighty silence. _Man, I’ll never be able to repay Iggy for this, birthday present or not._

Thankfully, Gerald is quick to return before the blond’s thoughts turn more fatalistic, and Prompto straightens when the elderly gentleman re-enters the room, the shopkeeper’s hands full with various pieces of clothing ranging from trousers to suit jackets. “This way, sir,” he beckons, waving for Prompto to follow him behind a nearby curtain. Prompto looks over at Ignis as if for permission, and his friend smiles encouragingly. Full of trepidation and the breath he is holding, Prompto follows Gerald into the dressing room.

He puts on whatever is handed to him, grateful for the tailor’s help in adjusting straps and buttons and who-knows-what (certainly not him). There are no mirrors in the small space, but he already feels— _different_. He tries not to think of how much everything he has on costs, lest he have a panic attack and add to his mortification. When Prompto’s fully clothed, he feels more exposed than he did in just his boxers, imposter syndrome overtaking him, but Gerald beams warmly, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

“You clean up nicely, if I do say so myself, sir. Shall we show Mr. Scientia?”

Anxiety seizes Prompto then, causing sweat to bead on his brow, but Gerald is already tearing back the partition, and Ignis’s eyes find Prompto’s before he can object. There’s a strange look in them—emerald orbs doubling in size as if he’s seen a ghost, and Ignis goes eerily still, lips parting ever-so-slightly. Prompto’s face scrunches together reactively, shoulders bunching as he tries to make himself look taller than he actually is.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it? I should have told you—this is why I don’t own a suit. I just look _weird_. I mean, I already don’t look _great_ , nothing like you or Noct, and maybe I should have warned you sooner but—” Ignis gets to his feet in the midst of Prompto’s rambling, face remaining taut as he takes several steps in Prompto’s direction. The blond’s tone pitches an octave higher in his distress, head jerking down in shame. “—if you don’t want to go with me, I totally get it, okay? Just, please don’t waste your money on me, I couldn’t—”

Prompto cuts off abruptly when he realizes Ignis is within arm’s reach, chin snapping up so fast he nearly trips backwards. Before Prompto fully understands what is happening, Ignis is grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to meet the advisor’s gaze. “Prompto,” he says, firm and authoritative (which he nearly misses as he thinks: _oh gods, Iggy is touching my face and he’s so close I can see every single one of his eyelashes, and_ wow _are they long and beautiful and perfect)_. Prompto gulps. “You are absolutely stunning, and I won’t hear you say otherwise. Please, have a look at yourself.”

Shocked, Prompto blinks, trying to process Ignis’s words and failing. Snorting in annoyance, or maybe disbelief, Ignis takes Prompto by the arm and pulls him back onto the pedestal before grabbing the blond by both shoulders and turning him to face the mirrors.

He can’t help himself—Prompto audibly gasps, unable to recognize the man in the mirror staring back at him. Initially, he is too afraid to move or blink, thinking that the image might vanish if he does. Surely, the suave, dare he say, _attractive_ guy can’t be _him_ , Prompto Argentum. It doesn’t make any sense, no matter which way he slices it, and once the initial shock wears off, he twists and turns, gawking at his own figure—which is way more slender and toned than he realized.

Ignis stands off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Prompto stare at his own reflection. The advisor eventually smiles, more reserved than usual, and says quietly: “The blue brings out your eyes.” He’s referring to the vest underneath Prompto’s suit jacket, which almost perfectly matches the wearer’s irises, a light shade with a subtle hint of violet.

“Oh—you’re right!” Prompto says, drawing closer to the mirrors in amazement. He doesn’t notice Ignis’s gaze become more focused as it pans down Prompto’s body, but he does hear the gentle clearing of the advisor’s throat. “Sorry, you must think I’m being really vain right now, huh?”

Prompto turns, and the light catches on Ignis’s glasses, making his green eyes seem to glow with an intensity that knocks the blond’s breath from his lungs. Going still, he nearly misses Gerald’s question, the older man’s voice sounding distant.

“So, will these selections suffice?”

Without turning away from Prompto, Ignis replies: “Yes, Gerald. These will do quite nicely. Please charge the purchases to my account.”

Bowing, Gerald excuses himself to do just that, and Ignis languidly approaches Prompto, reminding the man of a coeurl stalking through tall grass. His heart stutter-steps, and he feels his body tremble as Ignis adjusts his tie wordlessly, a hand running down Prompto’s chest before dropping down to the advisor’s side. Prompto feels the ghost of Ignis’s touch, a warmth blossoming under the coat he is wearing and turning his freckled cheeks pink.

“I am very much looking forward to our outing, Prompto.” Ignis speaks in a tone that shoots electricity down Prompto’s spine, solidifying the coeurl imagery in his mind.

Rubbing his now dry lips together to wet them, Prompto stutters his reply. “Y-yeah, me too.” Ignis’s lip curls up at one corner before he turns to follow Gerald out into the front of the store, leaving Prompto reeling in his wake, dizzy from an emotion he cannot put a name to.

* * *

“I can’t do this,” Prompto whines from behind his bedroom door.

“Of course you can,” comes Ignis’s patient reply. He has been standing outside of Prompto’s room for thirty minutes now, give or take, and it makes the twenty-year-old think that the advisor would make an excellent hostage negotiator. “We were supposed to already be at the Citadel,” Ignis reminds him without a trace of judgement.

Fidgeting with his tie, which he is certain is askew, Prompto sulkily presses his head to the door, imagining Ignis standing with hands in his pockets on the other side of it. “You should go then. I don’t want you to miss anything.”

There’s an amused chuckle. “I promise you, I won’t. Besides, I refuse to go without you.” _That_ plucks at Prompto’s heartstrings, and with guilt outweighing his anxiety, he slowly unlocks the door, opening it just a crack. He peers out to where Ignis’s form is shadowed in the hallway—the advisor is wearing a dashing black suit with a gray vest underneath, looking a million times hotter than usual with his hair perfectly coifed, but he’s still wearing his usual easy smile, doing his best to assuage Prompto’s fears without speaking a word.

“Don’t laugh,” Prompto pleads.

“Cross my heart.” Ignis mimes an ‘x’ with one finger, directly over his chest, and after taking a deep breath, Prompto pushes the door wide, clasping hands in front of him nervously as he steps into the light.

“Well. Here I am.”

It has been a few days since their trip to _Thread & Needle_, but Prompto still distinctly remembers Ignis’s reaction to seeing him in a suit for this first time. The expression now on Ignis’s face is similar—there’s the widening of his eyes, and the parting of lips, but it’s also different, now including the raising of eyebrows, and a startled blink that has Prompto glancing over his shoulder as if there might be a daemon behind him.

Prompto presses a hand to his stomach and turns at an angle, the fabric like a second skin with how perfectly it fits his muscled legs and torso. “What do you think?” he wonders, pulse thready in his nervousness.

There’s no immediate commentary from Ignis. Instead, the taller man adjusts his glasses before allowing the same hand that does so to slide over his mouth, shielding it from view. Prompto can’t be sure whether it’s a good or a bad thing, so he ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. When he looks up again, Ignis has closed the distance between them and he yelps, unable to contain his surprise.

“I think…” Ignis breathes, a hand lowering to fix Prompto’s tie idly, “…that I want to tear that coat off of you, but it would only delay us further.”

Prompto looks quizzically down at his black jacket that has a pocket square of fabric that matches the vest, frowning. “What’s wrong with the coat?”

There’s a split second of silence before Ignis bursts out laughing. It’s not his usual chuckle, but a full, hearty peal, and it leaves Prompto even more confused than before. A minute later Ignis manages to catch his breath, removing his glasses to wipe at the moisture that pools at the corners of his eyes.

“Nothing, Prompto. Nothing at all. Now, we really should be going.” Stepping back smoothly, Ignis turns to head out of the apartment, holding the door open while Prompto continues to stare at his suit like it might hold the explanation to what just transpired. “Coming?” Ignis calls out from where he is holding the front door open.

With a shake of his head, Prompto skips into motion. “Y-yep, be there in a jiffy!”

He steps out into the cool night air where a car is waiting to take them downtown, eyes falling squarely between Ignis’s shoulder blades. It never really occurred to him before how gracefully the advisor can move, but now that the tall man’s expertly tailored suit causes him to blend in with the night, he has to squint to keep track of Ignis in the low light and it draws attention to the fluidity of his steps, long legs moving with purpose and power.

It’s while Prompto is appreciating Ignis’s seemingly perfect form that a thought flashes across his mind. _Oh gods—_ he pales— _I hope he doesn’t expect me to dance._

* * *

The Citadel ballroom is a sight to behold, tall vaulted ceilings and marble floors set ablaze by candlelight, chandeliers lit with a magical blue flame that add a touch of drama and mystery to an otherwise standard affair. When Ignis and Prompto enter side-by-side, they can hear the serenade of an orchestra floating towards them, masking the voices of the countless people gathered throughout the expansive space. They take it in, in no rush to move right away.

“So, uh, what now?” Prompto asks, feeling completely out of his element. (That element being lounging in his pajamas in Noctis’s room while eating pizza and playing video games.) Ignis, on the other hand, is very much in _his_ element, and he offers his arm to Prompto without batting an eye.

“I have found that a drink often helps calm my nerves.”

Prompto doesn’t think too hard about hooking his elbow in Ignis’s, allowing the advisor to steer him around the edge of the room and towards a table where servers are handing out beverages. “ _You_ need to calm your nerves? But you’re always so— _you_ ,” he scoffs.

Side-eyeing Prompto with a smile, Ignis merely says, “I’ll take that as a compliment, but yes, I’ll have you know I too, am a mere mortal. Is my secret safe with you?” Prompto snickers with a nod, immediately feeling better even before Ignis snags two flutes of a bubbly looking liquid and hands one to him. “To you—thank you for being my plus one,” the advisors toasts, holding the drink aloft.

“Thanks for bringing me, Iggy. Cheers.” He makes the mistake of downing the alcohol like a shot, and the bittersweet liquid catches in his throat, making Prompto cough. Unfazed, Ignis sips at his beverage, chuckling.

A moment later, a low, suggestive whistle draws their attention to the end of the table, and they look in time to see Gladio saunter over to them, looking impressive in a combination of black and crimson, long hair slicked back and pinned up.

“Wow,” the prince’s Shield clicks his tongue as he unashamedly sizes Prompto up from head-to-toe, and the blond is suddenly left wishing he didn’t down his drink so quickly so that he’d have something to do with his hands. Ignis, seeing Gladio’s ravenous grin, coughs pointedly, but is blatantly ignored. “Damn, Prompto, you look good. Specs pick that out for you?”

Instantly reduced to a blushing, freckled mess, Prompto’s gaze shoots to the floor. “Oh—yeah, actually. Thanks?”

“Wait until Noct gets a look at you. Or anyone, really—” the Shield grunts as Ignis’s elbow catches him sharply in the side, finding the small space between his ribs that renders the larger man breathless. Prompto glances up, but both of his friends are now smiling politely, and he is none the wiser.

“Don’t you have a date of your own that you should be attending to?” Ignis questions with an added layer of sweetness that apparently sets alarm bells ringing in Gladio’s mind.

“Oh, uh…” He looks from Ignis to Prompto and back again. “…yeah, I do. You two have fun, and I’ll catch you later.” They give a coordinated wave as Gladio slinks off, and Ignis sets his now empty glass on a server’s tray as they pass by, turning back to Prompto.

Annoyance flickers across Ignis’s face as he looks over Prompto’s shoulder, and the blond frowns, following the advisor’s line of sight to where a group of people stand against the wall, eyeing them with interest. It’s a small group of men all dressed in black. Their golden embroidered accents catch the light whenever they turn, and Prompto vaguely thinks they look familiar. _Maybe I’ve seen them on the cover of a magazine_.

“Everything okay?” he asks when Ignis doesn’t tear his eyes away from their audience.

Ignis make a dismissive sound. “Yes,” he confirms vaguely, choosing not to elaborate. “Would you care to dance?” the prince’s advisor wonders suddenly, extending a hand, and Prompto pales, eyes darting out across the ballroom to where men and women spin in graceful circles in perfect time to the music. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, and he picks at one of the golden cufflinks on his jacket, fingers twitching nervously.

“Actually…I can’t dance,” he admits, shy. To his surprise, Ignis doesn’t look as disappointed as he expected him to.

“Ah, forgive me. I will have to teach you sometime.” The image of him dancing with Ignis becomes vivid in Prompto’s head then, the two of them dressed in their tailored suits and shiny shoes, hand-in-hand with Ignis’s arm tucked around his waist. Everyone has stopped to watch them, and Ignis smiles down at Prompto, his head lowering, lips brushing over Prompto’s before—

“Excuse me, Mr. Scientia?” Prompto’s fantasy is rudely interrupted by an older man with a rat-like face and greasy, slicked-back hair wearing a plain black tuxedo— _yuck_. Trailing behind him is a petite woman with curly red hair and bright green eyes that seem too big for her face, not to be outdone by the flowing white gown that seems to want to swallow her whole. As she draws closer, Prompto sees she has even more freckles than he does, and she smiles brilliantly in greeting, and _wow, she sure is pretty, I wonder if she’s a princess or something_.

The unknown woman curtsies while Ignis bends slightly at the waist, and Prompto bows belatedly, not exactly sure what is happening or what he is expected to do. “Colonel, good evening,” Ignis says to the man Prompto can only assume is the lady’s father in a voice that indicates to he’s trying very hard to be polite (Prompto has heard the same tone used on Noctis more than once.)

“Mr. Scientia, so nice to see you again. I was wondering if you might do my daughter the honor of dancing with her.” The man rubs sinewy hands together as he smiles—at least, Prompto _thinks_ he smiles, but with how crooked it is, it might as well be a smirk. He tries to keep his eyes off the gentleman’s receding hairline as Ignis makes his excuse.

“Forgive me, colonel, but I am entertaining my date, as it were. Perhaps another time.”

Prompto isn’t sure _why_ he does what he does next. It could be due to the way the girl’s face falls, making guilt knot tight in his stomach, or maybe it’s because he becomes instantly flustered by being referred to as Ignis’s ‘date’ to complete strangers who are clearly more important than he is, or it could be the way the old man’s eyes narrow angrily as they zero in on Prompto. Most likely, it’s a combination of the three, but Prompto instantly blurts without thinking: “It’s no problem, I don’t mind.”

Three heads turn to look at Prompto as if noticing him for the first time, and he presents them with his most charming smile, taking a step back as he attempts to smother the sudden urge to run away.

 _You don’t belong here,_ a voice reminds him.

“Splendid!” the man crows, pressing a hand firmly into the small of his daughter’s back to push her forward and into Ignis’s arms. Taking that as his cue to leave, Prompto twirls on his heel and makes a bee line out of the ballroom, finding the first bathroom he comes to and slipping inside. It takes everything in him not to check over his shoulder to see if anyone is following him, although he assumes no one is.

And why would they? He’s a nobody playing dress up and, judging by all the strange looks he has been getting since he arrived, everyone knows it. “What am I doing?” he groans, staring at himself in the mirror as he leans over the counter. For the first time, he gets a good look at the finer details of his outfit, the lighting in the bathroom way better than one would expect—but then again, it _is_ the Citadel.

The coat really _does_ look amazing on him, hugging his chest and arms in all the right places and accentuating his slim waist with the subtlest of golden pinstripes. The blue of the vest beneath it shimmers in the light, seeming to change color based on the brightness or darkness of the room, just like his own eyes. And the pants? Yeah, for the first time in recent memory, Prompto is reminded he _actually_ has an ass, and thigh muscles, and calves—and they are emphasized like an exclamation mark by the pair of naga skin loafers on his feet, angled into a point and curling up at the tips. The print on them matches his leather belt, visible when he shifts and causes the bottom of his coat to gap slightly.

“Wow,” he exhales. He is one thousand percent confident he will never look this hot ever again, and unfortunately, he’s hiding in a bathroom where no one can see him because he’s too embarrassed to show his face— _go figure_. A small voice in the back of his mind whispers convincingly: _go home, Prompto. Ignis doesn’t really want you here. He was probably just being nice when Noctis suggested taking you._ Sighing heavily, he prepares to listen to the voice inside his head, but then hears the door creak on its hinges and turns, mortified to find Ignis striding through it.

“Ignis, I’m sorry—” Prompto is tensing, fully expecting some sort of reprimand for being so damn awkward, and maybe for running off, and most definitely for not saying or doing the right things, and he cowers as the advisor sweeps into his personal space, arm extending. Shutting his eyes tightly, he winces as Ignis takes his hand and— _wait a second_. Prompto’s eyes shoot open to find Ignis’s fingers intertwining with his, a bemused smile on the man’s face, which, by the way, is much closer to his own than Prompto was expecting, making his heart jump in his chest.

“Prompto, I was afraid that you had left. I sincerely hope you can forgive me, and I hope it is not too late.”

Whatever Ignis just said isn’t computing in Prompto’s brain, and he blinks a few times in quick succession, expression blank. “…what?” _Why the hell is he apologizing to me? I’m the one who is ruining his evening._

“I see now that I made a mistake in asking you here—” Ignis begins to say, and Prompto hangs his head as his fears are confirmed. _Of course it was a mistake. He’d be much better off dancing with Colonel Whoever’s daughter than standing on the wall with me._ “—it was a convoluted way to take you on a date, and I should have just gathered my courage and asked you outright from the start.” Prompto’s head jerks up from where he was absently watching Ignis’s thumb brush over the backs of his knuckles, and he can’t help but gasp in disbelief.

This time, he says what he’s thinking out loud. “Wait— _what_?”

For once, Ignis appears more out of place than Prompto, pulling his hands back as he shifts away. “I had hoped my less than subtle hints would be enough to communicate my feelings for you, but I see now that I simply must come out with it, even if it makes me seem like an utter fool.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Prompto holds a hand out in front of him, mimicking the screeching of tires coming to an abrupt stop. “ _You_ have feelings for _me?”_ He points to himself as Ignis gives a slow nod. “ _Me_? Prompto Argentum. _You_ —” he points at Ignis, just so they’re clear. “—Ignis _I could get it any day of the week_ Scientia, have feelings for _me_?” Thankfully, Ignis laughs, but it does little to calm the blond’s nerves. “And what do you mean ‘less than subtle hints?’ _What_ hints?” Prompto demands, arms folding over his chest so that the fabric of his suit jacket pulls taut.

Ignis’s laugh deepens, turning throaty and alluring, and he steps forward to remove any remaining space between them. Taking firm hold of Prompto’s tie, he pulls it free with a quick tug, forcing the blond’s chin to tilt upwards.

Speaking carefully so as to remove all remaining doubt, Ignis murmurs with every word crisply enunciated: “I want to tear that coat off of you.”

Prompto’s heart dips down into his stomach, a pulsating heat blossoming in his gut. “…oh.” The smirk that snakes across Ignis’s lips isn’t _unkind_ per se, but it _is_ vicious—and _hungry_. Blood rushes to Prompto’s cheeks, and he doesn’t realize he is holding his breath until Ignis releases him, making the blond swoon and forcing him to exhale.

Ignis’s hands slip into the pockets of his jacket as he slides back to give Prompto room, but the tension remains. Sweat beads on Prompto’s forehead. _Boy, is it hot in here, or is it just me?_

“My, you are looking rather flushed, Prompto,” Ignis drawls. “Shall I take you home and put you to bed?” The advisor’s head tilts, smirk now playful. Prompto picks up the _less than subtle hint_ this time, and nods enthusiastically, words escaping him. “Very good, then.” With a bow, more pronounced than the one he gave the woman in the ballroom, Ignis holds out his arm, and Prompto accepts it.

The trip from the bathroom out of the Citadel passes by in a blur—Prompto is too busy focusing on the firmness of Ignis’s arm beneath his fingers to pay attention to much else, but as they pile into the backseat of the car idling at the curb that is waiting to take them home, Prompto becomes acutely aware of one thing: Ignis’s strong hands unbuttoning his coat and pulling it from his shoulders to press warm lips against the nape of his neck. The sensation it creates is similar to embers that glow red-hot before bursting into flame, consuming everything—and everyone—in its path. It’s overwhelming in the best of ways, and Prompto prays between exploratory kisses and wandering hands, that he never gets used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> I respond to all comments. Feel free to yell at me on Tumblr or Twitter, hard-noct-life and @HardNoctLife respectively.


End file.
